


White Blank Page

by smaragdbird



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fitzjames PoV, Introspection, M/M, Memory Loss, Sad Ending, Scurvy, losing your mind
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-21
Updated: 2018-09-21
Packaged: 2019-07-14 23:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16050446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smaragdbird/pseuds/smaragdbird
Summary: He feels though that if he keeps losing memories, he'll end up like one of the men who survived their encounter with the terror: their bodies empty husks, minds wiped clean like books with empties pages





	White Blank Page

**Author's Note:**

  * For [skazka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/skazka/gifts).



With every passing day he found it harder and harder to keep the events in their proper chronological order. His diary was little help as the entries had become just as muddle as his mind. For yesterday he had written Beechey Island as the place and Janury 5th as the date, even though they were hundreds of miles and three years away from their first winter camp. And it was so far into the summer that the sun was barely setting and it was never truly dark anymore whereas on Beechey darkness had clung to them like a shroud. He had written something similar in a letter to his brother that William would most likely never read. 

“James?” Crozier, no Francis he thought of him as Francis these days, he was sure of that, touched his arm, his gaze full of concern. 

“What…are we leaving?” He asked. Around them the men busied with the sledges, Henry giving orders, a familiar sound that reminded him of China.

Francis shook his head. “We’re making camp for tonight.”

A moment of silence passed between them as he tried to gather his thoughts and remember what orders needed to be given. “We should make a fire to cook the food.”

“You already gave that order”, Francis’ voice was unbearably gentle. James had always hated being pitied, but here, lost in this empty landscape, perhaps pity was all that was left.

“It seems old age catches up sooner with some than others”, he tried to joke but his aching teeth made smiling a chore.

Francis returned his smile anyway, even though the joke hadn’t been very good. But that was what Francis seemed to do now, laugh at his bad jokes and listen to his worse stories. James couldn’t recall when things had changed between them. 

His mind was failing him, bit by bit. His body had been put through a lot over the years, broken bones, the bullet wounds on his arm and chest, malaria and walking across the desert. It was used to being pushed to the limit and beyond. It had mended each time.

This though, this felt different. Unbidden a recent memory came to mind, the empty stare of one of the men that had survived their encounter with the terror only to be left like a blank slate, an empty book as Bridgens had put it. If he kept losing memories, maybe the same thing would happen to him.

He was so used to fighting for what he wanted, for what he thought he deserved despite the circumstances of his birth that he had forgotten that sometimes fighting was not enough. Sometimes it was not even an option.

As they made camp he tried his best to appear normal, watching the few remaining officers carry out the orders. Henry at least he could still remember and it made him look sharper and more in focus than the rest of them. Francis’ steward gave orders and James knew that was right but he did not recall why or what his name was. And in contrast to Henry, Edward seemed a little blurred around the edges. James remembered appointing him to this expedition but not why or where they had met. Surely if he remembered standing on the deck of the Cornwallis with Mr DeVoeux he should be able to recall where he had met Edward.

The pain in his side and his arm did not help. Helping with the tents felt as if he driving nails into his own flesh but he also knew it would be bad for the morale if he showed weakness now. Ever since his first command he had tried to be an example for the men.

“Here”, Francis appeared at his side with a tin. “You should eat.”

“So should you”, James replied. They had both retired to the tent they were sharing apparently, bedding shoved together into something that resembled a nest more than anything else.

Francis raised a second tin as if he was about to make a toast and James repeated the gesture with a smile. It felt so natural to be here with Francis like this. Affection bloomed in his chest like a flower under the sun and he just sat there and watched for a moment as Francis ate.

There was something he needed to tell Francis. Something important. Something Francis needed to know. 

“Francis – “He turned to him, the words on his tongue only to lose them immediately. They were just gone like, vanished like smoke in the wind. 

“James”, Francis looked at him patiently, waiting for him to gather his words.

He gave him a wan smile. “There was something I wanted to tell you but now I cannot recall what it was. This will not make a very good story when we make it back to England.”

If any of them made it back to England he didn’t say. Expressions of pessimism was Crozier’s forte, not his. It wouldn’t do any good to the men to show doubts in their success. The unchartered coastline of Canada was merely 200 miles long. As soon as leads opened up they could sail onwards to the west and – 

“Francis?”

“Yes?”

“Why are we not on the ship?” James asked. It was too bright and too warm to be their winter camp on Beechey. “We should be sailing through the passage right now.”

“James”, Francis said intently, gripping his arms with both hands, “The ships were frozen, remember? We had to leave them behind.”

“Yes, of course”, James replied even though Francis’ words only sounded vaguely familiar. He couldn’t remember any of it. “And Sir John?”

“What do you think?” Francis said it as if he was going to base his answer on James’ one and not on the truth.

“I think he is dead”, James replied because that was the most logical explanation.

“You’re right. He is dead.”

“Am I right about this, too?” James asked, resting his hand on the side of Francis’s face. 

“Yes.” Just this one word but it was enough.

“We have a horribly timing”, James said, trying to keep his tone light as if his heart wasn’t breaking into a thousand pieces in his chest. “Three years we’ve known each other and it took us this long?”

“We didn’t know each other before we left the ships”, Francis pointed out and James knew he was right. 

“I just wish”, he said, his thumb stroking Francis’ cheek, “that we’ve known each longer.”

“Me, too.”

/

The next day he fell when hauling the sledges, blood seeping through the wound in his side. 

He did not get back up again.


End file.
